


two masks

by scrapbullet



Series: all these things they will change [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Domestic, Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Not Beta Read, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Cupping his face with one hand Miranda shuffles forward, unwittingly - or, perhaps not - pressing the roundness of her bosom to his chest. The needle rests against the soft flesh of his ear lobe; a promise. “Yes, I suppose it will make you look rather mighty, with gold hanging from your ear.”-Wherein Flint acquires an earring, and everything is always about Thomas.





	

“An earring is a touch whimsical, don’t you think?”

Miranda, tall and beautiful in a frock with seams frayed from care and cleanliness, plucks the needle from its resting place to pass it over naked flame, careful to keep the delicate lace of her sleeves from the candle. For a few moments more she keeps it there, turning it over with careless fingers, showing no sign of pain. 

James - for, with her he is always _James_ , and as such a terrible reminder of the man whom had been the sun in which they’d gladly and lovingly followed- merely cocks his head to one side to watch. The scowl on his face, ever-present, softens imperceptibly. “Perhaps. It lends to the façade rather well, don’t you think?”

With a moue of amusement Miranda, deeming the needle appropriately cleansed, settles herself onto James’ lap; not much of a weight at all. Even now she is something of a waif, wrists bird-thin and so very breakable, and yet her strength is apparent in the lift of her chin and the confidence in her eyes as she stares the great and terrible Captain Flint right in the face. Her smile says it all. 

Cupping his face with one hand Miranda shuffles forward, unwittingly - or, perhaps not - pressing the roundness of her bosom to his chest. The needle rests against the soft flesh of his ear lobe; a promise. “Yes, I suppose it will make you look rather mighty, with gold hanging from your ear.”

“It’s no different from a tattoo,” James protests with a grimace, and thus Miranda slips the needle through, quick and precise and as utterly thorough in this as in all things. “Jesus fuck!”

Blood wells up as the thin sliver of metal is replaced with gold, fingers already roughened from months of Nassau gently dabbing it away. “Blasphemy, dear James.”

Huffing, the pain inconsequential, James palms the worn silk of her billowing skirts with no other intention than to touch. A kind of comfort, perhaps, that is an oddity now that there is one of their number gone forever. Thomas had been free with his affections - happy to touch his wife and lover and be touched in return, to kiss and be kissed, to love and be loved. It is strange and heart-breaking to be without him, here, in this place where they’d all so hoped to begin anew.

The ache in James’ chest ebbs and flows like the tide, like the sea which calls to him as surely as Thomas does.

 _Did_. As Thomas _did_.

“You have entered me and given me pain, just as he did.” He muses, voice gruff with emotion. 

Miranda, struck speechless, pulls away from their loose embrace to look at him searchingly, and upon finding the fresh wound of an old hurt so blatant across his features, presses a kiss to his brow. “But is it a good pain?”

James, feeling the heaviness of gold in his lobe and of loss in his chest, does not answer.

Silence is enough.

It is all he is capable of, after all. A debt to Thomas, to his memory, that must be paid in full. As James, as _Flint_ , he will see it done, no matter that he is nothing more than a pawn in a game insurmountable. What Thomas wished will be done, come hell or high water. 

Miranda, her arms tight around his shoulders, is the only anchor he has left. And yet...

Let it be hell. Let it be hells' wrath rained down upon them all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Spine and Leaves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787656) by [willowbilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/willowbilly)




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